


every scrap of you (would be taken from me)

by pumpkinspicedshaniac



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:01:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinspicedshaniac/pseuds/pumpkinspicedshaniac
Summary: It's 1939 and war is looming. But after a freak accident at Button House, the Captain is facing a conflict of his own.
Relationships: Pat Butcher/The Captain (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	every scrap of you (would be taken from me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? naming the Captain after a comfort character of mine? It's more likely than you think. I'm not even sure the name suits him butttt  
> Apologies in advance for this fic (and how bad I'll inevitably be at updating it)

_To be beside you just once more._

_I swear that would be enough._

\-----

July 25th

Looking back, the Captain wished he’d known. He stood in his kitchen across from Pat, sipping from a cup of tea, and later he would wish he’d said something. Freed some of the words clogging the back of his throat, the thoughts and feelings he’d pushed to the dark hinterlands of his mind. But he hadn’t. Because all was well then. Pat was _there_.

“Did I tell you?” Pat wore a wide grin, one that was so infectious that the Captain smiled too, though he hid it behind his cup, “I’m taking the boys on an activity week tomorrow. Button House.”

The Captain took another sip before answering, “Button House? I can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

“Nice place, actually. Lovely old house. You’d like it, mate. It’s a shame you can’t come.” He didn’t hear the hopeful note in Pat’s voice, something that said he was sadder about that fact than he let on.

“Yes, well, it’s a busy time, Patrick.”

Pat nodded, gazing down into his teacup for a moment, “Yeah, I know. You don’t… you don’t there’ll be a war, do you?” He looked up at the Captain with barely disguised fear in his eyes.

The Captain wanted to undermine it, to allay Pat’s fears. But then again, Pat was a braver man than him in the way that he was effortlessly himself. The Captain had been fighting against himself his whole life. The face he presented to the world, the stoic and straight-laced front, hid something more vulnerable and soft than he cared to admit.

“I won’t sugar-coat it, it looks likely. Of course, I’m not the leading authority on that, but those higher up are certainly preparing for one.”

The Captain stilled his fingers where they shakily gripped his mug. He was prepared for war, in terms of skill, but he remembered the first one. The great war. What a misnomer for such a tragedy. He’d often wondered how fighting shoulder to shoulder in such damp conditions, constantly afraid for your life, their lives could ever be great. World War One had left a scar, along with the physical ones. The Captain wasn’t ready for another war to open it up.

“And how do you feel about that? Or is that a silly question?” Pat looked at him with those bright, all-knowing eyes. Sometimes, the Captain thought Pat must know more about him than he knew himself. And he stayed. Pat had seen the worst in him and stayed by his side anyway. The Captain wished he could tell Pat how grateful he was for that.

“It’s what I’m here for, Patrick.” The Captain replied, his voice tight. Pat didn’t push it; he knew that the Captain was a secretive man. If he had something to tell Pat, he would, but his secrets were as precious as air to him. They gave him a hiding spot he so desperately cherished.

Pat changed the subject quickly, “Have you heard about Fawcett? News like that is just what the country needs right now, I reckon,” He said with a chuckle.

“Yes, he sure does pick his moments.”

The Captain watched him, saw how the corners of his eyes crinkled, heard how his laugh filled the small room with welcome levity. He also noticed how his own heart, already beating fast in its cage, skipped a beat at the sound. He wondered what that meant but knew somehow that he wouldn’t like the answer.

\-----

Pat left a few hours later. The Captain stood at the sink, washing their cups with one ear cocked to the sound of the radio. All doom and gloom as usual. The afterglow that Pat left in his wake was slowly ebbing away and something more sinister was creeping into its place. The Captain would never tell anyone, not even Pat, but he was so _lonely_. He longed for someone to spend the empty nights with, for a hand to squeeze tightly during those terrible radio broadcasts, for another soul to keep his own company. But the idea of finding a wife was an uncomfortable one. He couldn’t explain it, but there was an ache, a sort of longing, in his chest. He wasn’t sure a woman could fix it.

\-----

July 27th started as an average day for the Captain. He almost wanted to laugh about that in retrospect. It was the kind of calm before the storm that the citizens of Pompeii must have felt before their world fell apart. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

The Captain was reading when the car pulled up outside his house. It was Pat’s, he recognised it straight away, but it was far too early for him to be back from the trip. He’d barely been gone two days. Something seized the Captain’s stomach with an iron grip as he sat watching Carol climb out of it. Alone. He knew better than to jump to conclusions, but his gut feeling told himself something was wrong.

Carol knocked on the door a few moments later. The Captain opened it to see her wearing all black, her eyes slightly pinker than the rest of her face.

“Jonathan,” She said with a nervous gulp, “Can I come in?”

The Captain took in her outfit, not letting himself think about what that colour meant, and stepped aside without a word. Carol all but threw herself down onto a dining chair. She looks ten years older than she had the last time they saw each other.

“Tea?”

“Please,” She said quietly, and when he placed the cup in front of her, she cradled it tightly.

The Captain slid into the seat opposite her. He took a sip of his own drink, but it was dark and bitter on his tongue. He pushed it to one side and looked over at Carol.

“Is everything okay?” He prompted when she continued to stare silently into her tea.

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and shook her head, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Pat…” A tear escaped down her cheek and was soon followed by more, “There was an accident, completely freak it was. He’s… Oh, Jonathan, he’s dead.” Her head fell forward and she sobbed noisily into her hands.

There was an incident, during the first war when a shell exploded only a few feet from the Captain. He’d been blown off his feet and the ringing in his ears stuck around for a while, drowning out all other sounds. That’s how it felt then, as he sat back in his chair and looked bewildered at the woman before him. She was speaking still, explaining what had happened, but he didn’t hear a word of it. Because Pat was dead. That was the only thing that echoed in his mind.

_Pat was dead._

The Captain didn’t remember putting an arm around Carol. He didn’t remember promising to help with the funeral. He didn’t remember showing her to the door. He didn’t even realise his legs had given way until he hit the rough cord carpet. The sunlight streaming through the windows was dwindling. And as the dark, cold night closed in around him, and the ringing in his ears subsided, the Captain did the same thing he did in the hospital after the accident. He cried.

He cried and cried, all the while knowing that no amount of tears would bring his best friend back. Pat was dead.


End file.
